


Whatever Way Our Stories End

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [23]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Azzan's Sense of Humor Needs A Warning Tag, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Pining, Satinalia, Slow Burn, mentions of non-consensual touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 04:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12975753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Fenris works through the events proceeding their meeting with Hawke’s stalker.





	Whatever Way Our Stories End

**Author's Note:**

> Early Christmas present to my dear readers! Thank you for following these two through their long and arduous journey!

Skin hung from the bone as if peeling an orange, so light it seemed almost translucent. Veins criss-crossed beneath the white skin. It ambled slowly closer, that silken black hair swishing gently across broad shoulders. Those beautiful blue eyes had milked over. Azzan’s corpse lumbered slowly toward him. Fingers wrapped one by one over his shoulders, and a heavy, familiar weight pressed down from behind him. “I got bored,” Danarius said. Those lips bent to press upon the edge of his ear. “You took too long.”

His entire body tensed, prepared to fight, to kill. To ruin. His eyes opened.

He breathed hard as he took in the sight of the ceiling – his, now, or as good as, since he’d lived there for over four and a half years. For the past two weeks, he’d woken like this, breath gasping in as he tried to orient himself. His mind flashed, as always, back to that day in the small grove Hawke had led them all to, the man in the mage-like cloak that had confronted Hawke as they’d fought off that girl’s shambling corpse and the demon that had infested her destroyed body. He covered his eyes. He remembered what they’d looked like, Hawke standing chest to chest with that abomination. The killer had leaned in close, Hawke still as stone. The killer had touched him.

He clenched his eyes shut so tight white spots sparked behind his lids. Meanwhile, he’d been stuck dealing with the minor demon still residing in that dead woman’s body. By the time they’d managed to beat the thing and reach Hawke’s side, the killer had managed to touch – and then, worse, Fenris had attacked Hawke for what he’d seen. He knew – he _knew_ – what it looked like to be in a position where one could not refuse another’s advance. And not only had Hawke been in such a position, bowing to the killer’s greater strength in order to ensure their survival, but he’d also been physically trapped, unable to fight even if he’d wanted to. Fenris had remembered, and in that memory attacked blindly. His words had cut Hawke, the last person who should have received another wound.

Fenris raised his other arm, his heart pounding as he took in what he’d done. What he’d been unable to do. The very fact that Hawke, who had gotten them all together to stop that man, had instead chosen to allow such a man to walk away – how much more powerful was he than them? How much weaker were they? Would they really have stood so little a chance? But he already knew the answer to that. They’d all been busy fighting the abomination while Hawke fought alone. And he’d been unable to move.

If the killer had wanted it, Hawke would have died that day.

He rolled out of bed, his hands shaking. He had to practice. He had to make sure such a thing never happened again.

* * *

Hawke, to all but the most discerning eyes, hadn’t changed much. He still went out to help others, to shop, to hang out with the dwarf at the tavern. He went to Merrill’s and spent an entire day helping her rid her house of bed bugs. He spent a full afternoon helping a young elf find her mother, who had gone missing the day before, only to find the woman at her job, having not been allowed to leave until the next worker on shift came in. Hawke had even managed to get himself caught up in the guardswoman’s problems, and had been set up as her second as she went through finding a band of thieves in Hightown. That one, Fenris suspected, was just to give Hawke something to do. The man was likely tearing apart at the seams. Fenris certainly was.

The worst part for Fenris was not being a part of these random acts. Instead he was pushed to the side as Hawke struggled to pretend his life was normal, as those shoulders and that back tensed to stone, as those eyes grew baggy with the weight of insomnia. He was left with no recourse but to ask the dwarf for updates, until the dwarf would catch sight of him in his doorway, sigh and shake his head, and give him one without being asked.

Fenris felt helpless. Whatever Hawke had felt the instant he’d come across that man in the grove, he’d recognized him as someone they could not defeat. That meant that, as he was, he wasn’t strong enough to protect Hawke.

He gritted his teeth as he swept his greatsword in his main lobby. The tiles in this room had been replaced over and over again by Hawke, no matter how many times Fenris warned he would just break them all over again the next time he practiced. Hawke would simply come in and place the new stone tiles in himself, keeping prying eyes from seeing the inside of these walls. Keeping Fenris’ private place private.

He grunted as he overbalanced himself the tiniest bit. He’d been practicing since he’d woken. He could feel sweat running down the back of his neck, along the sides of his brow. He was still making small mistakes like this. If he continued making them, he wouldn’t be able to stop that man the next time he came.

Not that he could, as things were now. Whatever reason Hawke had for keeping him at bay, it meant that, if that killer attacked again, Fenris would likely not be close enough to stop him.

_Whatever reason_. As if he didn’t know exactly why.

“ _By now, you either trust me or you don’t.”_

With a scream, he slammed his sword into the ground. His breath came in short pants. He looked upon the split stone beneath his sword and threw the weapon to the ground. He paced.

He _did_ trust Hawke. He had no idea why he’d let his anger come into play then. The instant he’d seen that man get close to Hawke, he’d wanted to slice the man’s head from his shoulders. He’d known exactly what it was he’d been seeing. So why? He’d _known_. So why attack Hawke?

Hawke hadn’t deserved his rage. Isabela should have done far worse than glare at him and tell him off. Hawke deserved to do more than simply avoid him.

Hawke should have been avoiding him for years. He’d expected it from the moment he’d turned from the man that morning, nearly three years ago now. It wasn’t, he’d told himself even then, as if he had any claim on Hawke. Not anymore. He’d let the man go. But after that – after Hawke had come to his house, soaking and miserable – he’d never truly thought that Hawke would ever fully abandon him. Even if… but even with Fenris cutting their time together to nothing but a one-night stand, he’d never thought Hawke would truly ever… Hawke, he’d thought, wasn’t the type of man to suddenly…

There would be no ‘suddenly’ about it, and Hawke, though the man had fumbled in bed enough to make it apparent he had been nervous, or concerned – something that, at the time, had helped pull Fenris from the memories he had of that sort of encounter, both before he’d run from Danarius and after, when he’d sometimes found himself in a position to take shelter with those who would give him succor in exchange for such favors – was certainly not going to live his life alone after Fenris any more than he would have beforehand. A man like him could have anyone, and likely had. That Fenris had received the chance to be with him, to have that attention and care turned to him for even that one night, had been surreal. The man’s hands had tested the waters with each touch, never taking or demanding more than Fenris had been willing to give. Letting him lead in every way.

Azzan had been nothing like any of those who he remembered coming before, and it had been glorious.

Afterward, however, when Fenris had settled down enough to think about it, he’d worried that Hawke had been nervous because he hadn’t been ready for such a thing with Fenris. And then, of course, had come the realization he had now, that Hawke had been worried about _his_ level of readiness.

That Hawke, the one who had worried over Fenris when Fenris had dragged the man to his own bedroom – not that Hawke had complained – had been trapped in place while a killer had gotten close and…

He raced back over to his sword and kicked it up. He’d made the mistake of getting angry because of helplessness and fear. He’d let his emotions get in the way. Wasn’t that what had pushed him to pursue a deal with that demon when he’d traveled with Hawke in the Fade?

He grabbed the hilt of his sword and swung it up, spinning immediately into a low sweep, his sword slicing through the air before him. He wouldn’t allow himself to make any more such mistakes. He would become strong enough to protect Hawke. And once he did, once he was, he would beg Hawke to give him just one more chance. And this time, he would die before letting it go.

* * *

He caught sight of Hawke nearly a month after they’d met the killer. He was walking with Isabela and Merrill, shaking his head at something Isabela was saying. Merrill was practically hopping like a bunny beside him, leaning around him to speak with Isabela for a moment before looking curiously at Hawke as he laughed, his shoulders moving helplessly as he reacted to Merrill’s words.

Fenris’ heart nearly beat itself out of his chest.

He’d turned away from that same feeling when he’d turned away from Hawke that night. He put one hand to his chest and ordered his heart to calm. He hadn’t thought Hawke would get into another relationship, but that was likely because he’d forced himself not to think of it at all. If he did, he would be even more furious to see Hawke laughing with Isabela and Merrill, speaking easily with Anders, confiding in Varric, working with Aveline. Hell, every single normal occurrence would take on a tinge of green as he watched Hawke, because Hawke was open and friendly with everyone, and that meant he could be with _anyone_.

He stormed around until finally making his way to The Hanged Man, and there he stomped up the stairs to Varric’s abode and let himself in.

The dwarf sat at his table, apparently trying to foist off a bunch of letters on the poor messenger attempting to hand them over and leave. Used to this by now, Fenris pushed his way into the room and grabbed the letters himself. The messenger took the chance to run away. “Just take the things! You always just use them for your sculptures, anyway!” He slammed them on the table and leaned forward. “News?”

“Why, yes!” Varric said. “Wonderful to see you again, too, Broody. How are you doing on this fine day?”

“News,” he repeated, his lips thinning as he stared down at the man. His hair was combed neatly, his clothes only slightly scruffy. He certainly didn’t look like someone who had something to worry about. Then again, he never really did. “I saw Hawke with Isabela and Merrill. Did something happen?”

Varric snorted. “You mean something other than Isabela coming back for the first time since she ran off? No. Apparently she’s leaving again, though. If you want to say something to her, you better do it now. She says she’ll come back, but you know her. There’s a good chance she’ll be leaving for good.”

Leaving? For good? He was surprised at the feeling that came upon him then. He didn’t want her to go. He didn’t want things to change. The feeling surprised him. It felt like he was losing something he’d only barely begun to grasp.

He must have taken too long to respond, because Varric stopped fiddling and leaned back. One eyebrow rose. “ _Do_ you want to say goodbye to her?”

There was something in that tone. Something Fenris didn’t quite understand. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the short man. Varric simply folded his hands on top of his stomach. It took several more moments for it to click, and when it did, he reared back. “I’m not…” But he had no idea why he was denying it, or why he was so upset at the assumption. He knew Hawke hadn’t told anyone about their one-night stand. He knew no one knew about it. Which meant the flirting Isabela did with him – the flirting that he found funny in a ridiculous way, both of them knowing it meant nothing – might be construed by others as real. He also knew that he was in a romantic commitment about as much as Hawke was.

Still. He found he didn’t want that innocuous flirting to be misunderstood. Then again, if he argued it, wouldn’t it sound like he was protesting a bit _too_ much? Considering the dwarf hadn’t said anything explicitly about a relationship between the two of them.

He let out a disgusted breath and pulled away. If Hawke wasn’t in trouble, then that was good enough. He could very well go to see Isabela. Perhaps he would.

He stormed off. The dwarf sighed behind him.

* * *

Eventually, time led to complacency. While he never stopped practicing, even going to Darktown’s streets to practice on real – and willing – targets – he stopped going to Varric to learn what Hawke was doing at any moment. He’d gone to speak with Isabela and had spent the night getting drunk. The both of them had a high tolerance for alcohol, but she eventually managed to drink him under the table. Isabela had leaned in at one point and licked his ear. He’d shivered. “Want me to put something else in my mouth?” she’d asked. He’d stared at her for a bit too long.

“Sure,” he’d said. And then, in the next instant, feeling like something was clawing at his insides, “actually, no.”

Despite his odd behavior, she’d merely grinned. “You’re more into monogamy than I’d have expected.” And she’d proceeded to get him horribly drunk. When he’d woken up, he’d found her already gone from Kirkwall, a letter left in her wake.

His friends, it would seem, took his ability to read for granted, just as Hawke had. Only now, thanks to the man, he actually could. He’d crumpled the note after reading it, upset and furious and prepared to pretend he’d never seen it.

It sat in his room, underneath the floorboards of his bed.

In months, Hawke hadn’t once asked him to join him in his ventures. He’d found himself on Hawke’s doorstep countless times, hand poised to knock. Every time, he had lowered his hand without a single sound having been made. What could he say? He’d done something that, if it had been done to him, he never would have forgiven. What right had he to demand Hawke forgive him?

Still, the waiting led to an unconscious worrying, until his nightmares warped into him walking through Kirkwall’s streets, life seemingly normal, until he bumped into Varric or Aveline or even the mage and asked how Hawke was doing, only for them to give him a funny look. “What are you talking about?” they would all say. “You know he died two months ago.” And he would snap awake with his heart pounding in his chest, his breath short as he struggled out of his bed. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking until he went and verified Hawke’s health with Varric in The Hanged Man.

By now, Varric simply took one look at him and told him how Hawke was doing. There was no sigh, no rolling of eyes. Varric had fallen past that at some point, into a new level of resigned. Even now, when it was so late at night, so late even the thugs had chosen to rest for the night, so late his knock on Varric’s door woke him, the man did nothing more than open his door, blink, and say, “he was just here. He’s going back to his home right now. Just. Go talk to him, Elf.”

Fenris’ fingers still shook a bit, but the rest of him calmed. Hawke had just been here, which meant the chances of something having happened to him were slim to none. Yet something niggled in the back of his mind. There was no such thing as prophecy or clairvoyance, yet he felt certain that Hawke was in danger. He spun around and ran off, his feet pounding on the stairs as he hurried through the tavern. Even in his rush, he could hear Varric groan out a long, “ _finally_ ,” before the dwarf closed his door and returned to sleep.

He knew it was ridiculous. It was merely the vestiges of his dream making him act. Yet he couldn’t help but race through Kirkwall’s streets, up the steps to Hightown and across the market square. And sure enough, there was Hawke, the only moving figure in the middle of the street, the templars at the corners eyeing him but not attacking – not yet, not until they had enough reason to appease the nobles should they learn of any actions made against their hero – as Hawke made his way back home. His steps were a little lopsided, just enough to make it clear the man had imbibed a bit too much – a normal occurrence with the dwarf. Hawke heard the sound of him running forward and like lightning, the man grabbed his staff and turned around. At the sight of Fenris, however, he stilled. Blinked. “Fenris?”

Fenris breathed heavily. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t winded. Yet seeing Hawke, face-to-face, even under the cover of darkness, after so long skulking from the shadows, made his heart triphammer in his chest with a staccato drumbeat. It hit his ribcage so hard he thought it might bruise. “Hawke.”

So many months, watching time pass, never letting himself reach out to this man. He’d sent letters to Tevinter, searching for his family. He had mercenaries searching the cities. Yet even making progress in that didn’t give him the same fluttering sense of _home_ as finally meeting Hawke’s gaze. It was cold outside; Satinalia was near, and Fenris couldn’t deny the odd feeling of want twisting in his gut. He hadn’t spent Satinalia alone since his first year in Kirkwall, thanks to Hawke, and he didn’t want to spend it alone again.

He stepped forward. “I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was little more than a croak. The templars tilted their heads, clearly listening in, but Fenris paid them no heed. They could listen if they wanted to. They meant nothing to him. “What I said that day. I knew it wasn’t right, even as I said it. I was just…” His jaw locked; the idea of speaking of what he’d been remembering in those moments made goosebumps break out over his skin. “I was foolish.”

“ _F_ _ool_ of yourself, then?” Hawke said, and grinned. Right. Drunk. Fenris wrinkled his nose at the odd question. He’d hardly ever seen Hawke more than tipsy. The man must have been one of those who fumbled with words, or repeated them, when he was in his liquor. Fenris did not know why he found that endearing. “I guess telling me is a kind _jester_ , but you didn’t have to run.” For some reason, Hawke chuckled as if he’d said a joke. “Or are you trying to be viscount for a day?”

Fenris blinked. It took him a few moments to remember the Satinalia tradition of making the town fool the leader of the town for a day. He grimaced. Well. Apparently drunk Hawke also held grudges. That wasn’t quite as endearing, but was wholly understandable. “No. I know I had no right – and even if I did, what I said was simply cruel.”

Hawke blinked several times. He tilted slightly to the side, as if gravity was slowly winning some arduous battle. “You’re… serious?”

“Yes.” He’d never been more serious in his life. He placed a hand to his chest. “What I said was wrong. I understand if you can’t forgive me, but I truly am sorry. It should never have happened.”

Hawke kept staring at him. “Okay?”

“I know it’s not ‘okay,’” Fenris said, and watched Hawke tilt so far the man looked about to fall. He rushed forward to steady him, then quickly retracted his hand the moment he made contact. The man’s skin was warm beneath his robe. “I just… needed you to know.”

“You said something stupid and mean,” Hawke said, his words coming out extremely slowly, as if he had to think about them. “Which is what you do when you’re feeling scared. You’re like a kitten. Even though everyone says Merrill is the kitten, you’re the kitten. She’s… a puppy. Or a hamster. All excitable and, uh.” Hawke waved one hand around and nearly side-stepped onto the ground. Fenris caught him again. This time, he couldn’t make himself let go. “And awkward and curious. You’re… feeling your way. You’re in a vulnerable place, so your claws are always out, and you keep them sharp. You hiss when people get close.” Hawke leaned close, until their foreheads touched. Fenris lost himself in those deep blue eyes. “You’re a kitty.”

Fenris nearly found himself asking if Hawke liked cats. He flushed. Hawke’s breath stank of alcohol, yet all he wanted to do was lean forward and take those lips in his. Each exhale made him shiver. “I am sorry I hurt you,” he whispered, and Azzan smiled. Fenris’ heart took off somewhere; it was lost.

“Are you _kitten_ me? _Paws fur_ a minute. It’s in the past,” Hawke said, and chuckled. Hot breath gusted over Fenris’ face. His dick jumped in reaction. Then he blinked.

“Are… you making jokes?” His jaw dropped when Hawke outright laughed. “You _are!_ You’re… making puns?” Horrible puns.

“They’re punny.” Fenris just stared at the man, his jaw failing to work. The beautiful man before him laughed outright. “Oh? Am I holding a wolf by the ears right now?” Hawke even punctuated his last pun by rubbing the pad of his thumb over Fenris’ ear. Despite the horror of learning Hawke’s idea of humor, he found a shiver running from the point of contact down to his toes and back up his spine.

“Hawke,” he said, and cleared his throat. His voice had gone low, and Hawke’s eyes darkened at the sound. The knowledge that Hawke still wanted him made every inch of his body thrum with adrenaline, so much that he was surprised his markings didn’t glow. He took several deep breaths. “Let’s get you back home.” Before he had to listen to any more of those horrible puns.

“It’s big,” Hawke breathed, just as Fenris made to lead him forward. Hawke hooked his arm around Fenris the instant the elf made to wrap it around his shoulders. As if the man had simply been waiting for permission to do it. Hawke hung his head. Strands of his hair hung between them, keeping Fenris from seeing those eyes. “It’s quiet. Orana tries to make it loud, and Sandal is… but it’s so big.”

Fenris pressed his lips together. Months couldn’t ease the pain of being alone. He could understand that very well. “You’re very drunk.”

“Varric said I won’t remember my name in the morning,” Hawke said, as if happy about that fact.

“Did that man – the mage – get in touch with you again?” he asked. He had to concentrate to not grip Hawke’s wrist too hard when the man nodded.

“A letter a week,” he said, and Fenris ground his teeth. The dwarf had neglected to inform him of that. “Updating me on his ‘progress’ and telling me what he was doing when I was doing things. It’s like he wants to be part of my life. This time he sent…” Hawke frowned. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He wouldn’t, either. If Danarius had chosen to stalk Fenris’ every movement, always waiting on the periphery of his life? The constant fear, constant tension, would destroy him. No wonder Hawke was this drunk. “Would you like me to stay with you tonight?”

He hadn’t meant to say that. He regretted it when he felt Hawke tense up against him. He opened his mouth to take it back when Hawke said, “I don’t think anyone should stay the night with me. The man might take it the wrong way.”

Fenris flushed, then blanched. That was right. The killer had touched Hawke. He may believe he had some sort of claim on him. Rage boiled in his chest. “How strong is he?” Fenris asked. “Do we really stand so little a chance against him?”

“Well,” Hawke said, leaning heavily against him as they neared his estate door, “I’m standing very little at the moment.”

Urf. Another pun.

Fenris looked at the door, nestled deep within an alcove, lending a semblance of privacy for an estate hunched in the center of a busy square. Hawke would be inside there, alone save for three servants, each of whom had about as much battle experience as a newborn. None would be able to help defend Hawke should the worst come to pass.

Knowing that, how well did Hawke sleep?

Hawke straightened, stumbling until he used the side of the wall. “He’s gonna complain about my drinking again,” Hawke murmured.

Fenris almost asked. Almost, he wondered aloud who ‘he’ was. But of course there was only one man they’d been talking about. His hands curled into fists. The man was telling Hawke how to live? It was as if Hawke was enslaved. “They must be something we can do!” he shouted. Hawke blinked at him.

“We’ll get stronger,” Hawke said. “Stronger, and stronger. Until there _is_ something we can do.” Fenris nodded. Hawke grinned. “Then you can wolf out all you want.”

Fenris groaned. _“Hawke.”_

Hawke laughed. “Fenris, you know you’re _free_ to dislike my jokes if you want to.”

Fenris covered his face with his hands.

* * *

Satinalia was a day of bright laughter, everyone crowding into Hawke’s house for drinks and presents. Fenris sat between Aveline and Hawke, given the place on Hawke’s right while Varric took the man’s left. Anders sat across from Hawke, but the man didn’t seem to be communicating much, even though Hawke attempted over and over again to pull him into the conversation. Aveline and Hawke’s conversations were short, and stilted, and Varric often intervened when they became too strained. Merrill was actually useful for once, breaking the tension with little more than her usual cluelessness.

It was worse than their usual get-togethers, yet Fenris was grateful for it nonetheless. It meant that, no matter how horrible things became between them all, whether they lost one of their number or argued, they would still be welcome in Hawke’s home.

He ended up joking with Hawke and the dwarf, and if it was a bit quieter than usual, if it was less boisterous than usual, than it was because things had changed.

Hawke handed Fenris a present, his cheeks bright, though Fenris noticed the man hadn’t drunk much. He’d also never mentioned the night Fenris had escorted him back. Whether that was due to the man wanting to pretend it never happened or his own warnings that he wouldn’t remember the night, Fenris didn’t know, and he didn’t know how to ask.

“I know I already gave you the emblem,” he said when Fenris made to touch the thing in question. “But that was from my mother. This is from me.”

Fenris looked down at the gift, wrapped in plain red paper and tied with a bright white ribbon. The crest sat heavy still on his side, a reminder of that which was still offered, even if he couldn’t bring himself to accept. That alone was quite a gift. Yet still he found himself reaching out and taking the wrapped item. It was heavy, and shifted slightly – enough for him to know there was more than one thing within. Already, he could tell it was books. He held them tightly in his hands, almost afraid to open the gift. The others were making grabs for their own presents, as usual; Merrill had wrapped the gifts she’d gotten for everyone in old paper, and Varric had deliberately tied his own off in ways that made Aveline sigh and pull out her sword. They were all passing their gifts to one another. Sometime – was it last year or the year before? – Fenris had first accepted a gift from Hawke. That seemed to have opened the floodgates, and now everyone had a gift for him – which meant, of course, that he’d been obligated to get them all something in return. That was why he’d hated the holiday – being forced to get gifts for others ruined the spirit of the giving, did it not? Yet here he was, partaking in the holiday festivities nonetheless, his own tiny gifts wrapped and put to the side. He had some small Dalish trinket from Merrill, something that she swore symbolized a freedom from human oppression or some such Dalish nonsense, and a tiny basket of fruit from the mage, who had received the same in return – a truce Hawke had made the year Fenris had accepted a gift, a benign way of saying they didn’t know or care what the other truly wanted.

But this gift. This gift, he held close to his chest for a moment, a bit speechless. If Hawke didn’t remember that night, he’d still been invited to this celebration, and he’d even been given a gift. His fingers curled around the edges of the wrapping, a small smile flitting on his face. Thankfully the others seemed busy ripping their gifts open, and he wasn’t teased for his behavior. He slowly opened the gift.

He’d been right to think books. A veritable pile of them, spilling into his hands as he pulled the wrapping away. They spoke of elven traditions and holidays, the elven gods and known histories, and the Chant of Light and even elven ancestry. He looked through it all, then quirked a brow at Hawke. The man shrugged. “I can’t give you your past,” Hawke said, keeping his voice low so they could retain some semblance of privacy. “But I can give you, I don’t know. Starting points? Something to look back on? I don’t know. It was all I could think of.”

Fenris’ fingers clutched the books’ bindings. He hadn’t told Hawke of his search for his family. Yet here the man was, trying to find something to help ground Fenris. To give him the roots he’d spoken of wanting. It was a fumbling effort, but if Fenris hadn’t been looking for family, this would be the closest thing he would have to the idea of a past. A cultural past was vague, but he found himself happy for it, nonetheless. The man had offered the Chant of Light, however, and he held it up. Hawke’s shrug then was a bit more… flailing. “I remembered you telling Anders that you believed,” he said. “I don’t know if you were ever given the opportunity to learn the faith for yourself. Whether you choose to accept it or not is up to you, but I wanted you to have the power to learn as much as you could.”

Fenris wanted him. So much. He held the books tight for a moment before putting them to the side, afraid Anders or Merrill would see and comment. But he stroked the leather cover of the Chant before he turned away. He would read it. And he would learn the truth of it, it and the Book of Shartan, and he would learn what it meant to believe on his own terms. Just as Hawke had. He nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and Hawke beamed.

The others laughed and showed off their presents, raising the noise in the large building to a crescendo, bouncing their laughter off the walls. Hawke watched them all with bright eyes. For this one moment, this one night, Fenris thought, Hawke’s home was full again.

He leaned forward. “How about a game of Wicked Grace?” he asked.

“Elf,” Varric said, leaning forward where they sat, “you’re playing my song.”


End file.
